I like writing. I mean, your name. I mean, I like writing your name. I like writing your name over and over, again and again and again. Is that stupid? I mean, of course that's stupid - obviously - but I feel like I should ask for your approval anyway, even now you're...you know, dead.
My counsellor gave me this black leather book yesterday. To write all my 'feelings' down in, like I'm some raving teenage fangirl who can't shut up about her overwhelming 'feels'. I'm being serious. A counsellor. I don't even need a bloody counsellor, but Mrs Hudson insisted. (I think she thinks we were sleeping together or something. She's more concerned about me than she should be, because I keep telling her that I'm absolutely fine. Unfortunately, she doesn't seem to believe me enough to just leave me alone. She brings me a lot of tea though, which is nice.)
The annoying thing is that when I actually bothered to open the notebook and start writing stuff down in it, the only thing I seemed to be able to write was your name. Your stupid, pretentious, idiotic name.
I always meant to ask your parents why they called you that. What kind of a name is Sherlock? Jesus, what kind of a name is Mycroft while we're on the subject? I bet you two weren't the most popular in the school playground, what with your names practically begging for bullies to sit on you and do whatever else six year old meatheads do.
The thing is, I can't exactly ask your parents anymore because you're...gone. I don't think I'm going to see them again, apart from at the funeral. Not that it's the sort of question I'd want to being up at a time or a place like that but...
I hate myself for it - God, I hate myself for it, Sherlock - but you don't know how much I want to know the answer to that question. It's like knowing the answer will bring you back for me, somehow. God. I don't even know. I sound like an idiot.
I am an idiot, without you to set me right.
You know, I bet if you ever read this you'd be laughing. I think you'd have a bloody great smile on your face, and I think you'd be happy that all I can ever think about nowadays is you. You're goddamn self-centred. You were, I mean. I just...
You were my friend, Sherlock.
You were my friend, and look at us now.
I don't know. I really don't - I don't know anything anymore. I just think you could have told me. Some kind of a warning would have been nice. I guess you always were a dickhead, though. I should have expected this - or something like it. It's not like I just pictured a nice peaceful death for you, because you're just not - you just weren't - that sort of person. You...
Yeah. Just. Good luck in the afterlife or wherever, Sherlock.
I can't believe it, but I miss you.